


On Any Rainy Day

by shadowed_sunsets



Series: The Broken Cup, aka The coffee shop AU [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Lestrade owns a coffee shop, Sherlock is a consulting specialty drinks maker, This is not my fault, coffee shop AU, hint of offscreen Mycroft/Greg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-30
Updated: 2013-05-01
Packaged: 2017-12-09 23:40:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/779309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadowed_sunsets/pseuds/shadowed_sunsets
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While on one of his daily walks around London John Watson ducks into a coffee shop to avoid the rain. A coffee shop owned and run by former DS Greg Lestrade, and the home of Sherlock Holmes' 'Science of Deduction' specialty drinks.</p><p>It's not hard to say his life will never be the same. Especially once he gets hired on as the newest employee.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is totally my friend Katie's fault. I was bored one night and wanted to write- she prompted me a AU where Lestrade owned a coffee shop. What followed was many long conversations and story ideas where we worked out this entire AU.
> 
> And this is just the beginning. There will be more stories within this AU. I have no doubt it will become an entire series.
> 
> This has been self-betad and brit-picked, so any mistakes are my own fault. Sadly, I do not own Sherlock or anything to do with Sherlock.
> 
> Also, I forgot to say before, but if anyone would like to beta/brit pick this/future stories I would be more than delighted. Please contact me!
> 
> I hope you enjoy; comments/feedback appreciated.

John slowly limped his way down the pavement, his hand wrapped tightly around the top of the cane so his mind would focus on that and not how his leg throbbed with every step. The people walking past avoided him, not meeting his eyes or even looking at him as they skirted around his slower moving figure. His therapist had told him repeatedly that the limp wasn’t real and there was no wound in his leg, just the one in his shoulder; a wound that had destroyed his career as an army doctor and shipped him back to London. But being fake never seemed to matter during his walks around London, his attempt to reacquaint himself with how the city had changed while he was gone. The walks he’d once enjoyed turned into more of an annoyance, even if it was good exercise and a reason to get out of his awful colorless bedsit.

When he was still a good ways from his bedsit the skies opened and in seconds his jacket was soaked through and water was dripping down his face. He knew he couldn’t get back to his bedsit without first getting absolutely soaked, since of course he didn’t have an umbrella.

John stopped and looked more closely around the street. There were mostly walk-up residences, and a bookstore squished between two buildings. Then, on the corner was a blue awning and crumbling darker brick. The pavement and street were scattered in shadows, but the lights inside the shop shone bright. A red sign declared the shop to be open and customers welcome.

John quickly hurried towards the beckoning light, his limp almost forgotten in his hurry to get out of the rain.

Once he was in the covered doorway to the shop John took the opportunity to shake off his jacket and run fingers through his wet hair. It didn’t help much, but it made him feel better.

Looking a little better John pulled the door open. A bell dinged lightly above him, a cheerful sound given the weather. He stepped through the doorway and onto a mat that welcomed him in large, friendly letters. As he pulled off his jacket the door closed behind him with a click.

With the sound of the rain now cut off, it was possible to hear a quiet track of music over the near silence of the cafe. The music was actually rather pleasant, and John found himself relaxing more as he took in the store.

There were no customers at the tables around the floor of the cafe, or anyone in the small space off at the far end. No one was at the long wooden counter at the other side of the room, and from his vantage point it looked like the doors to the room to the left of the counter were frosted. The counter shone under low lights from the ceiling, matching the ones hanging in alternating blues and greens in the rest of the room and the cushions on the chairs sat around the low wooden tables.

Given the sudden rain John had expected there would be at least a few other people who’d been caught in the rain and took shelter inside the cafe.

The whole place looked comfortable, and well-cared for. It was nice, and definitely warm- just the place to get out of the rain.

John walked further into the room and between the first two tables, flexing his hand on top of his cane. He put one foot in front of the other, slowly making his way past the tables and up to the counter with its two solitary stools.

Just when he was close enough to brush the edge of the counter the doors off to the left slid open with a soft ‘swish.’ John looked over to find a black woman standing just outside the doors, looking slightly surprised to see him.

A moment passed and the surprise faded to a mild ‘I will deal with you but I don’t want to because I have other things I could be doing’ expression.

“What do you want?” She asked, a faint edge to her helpful question. Her posture was just this side of defensive, one hip cocked to the side, but John put that down to how tired and exhausted she looked. Maybe they hadn’t expected any more customers given how it was pouring now.

John adjusted his stance to be more open and smiled. “I was hoping for a cup of tea; it's absolutely awful out there.”

She gave him a searching look, as if he’d asked for something more outrageous than a cup of tea. John just waited.

Finally the woman sighed and walked over to stop in front of him. “What kind would you like?” She asked, sounding faintly put upon.

John looked past her to the blackboard panel on the wall behind her. There wasn’t any detailed list of drinks and goods written out for customers to read, but there was something on the blackboard in white handwriting. It took John a moment to decipher it. “Er, what’s the ‘Science of Deduction special’?”

Her eyes widened in visible confusion for a quick second before she asked, “the what?”

Instead of repeating the ridiculous name, John merely pointed to the blackboard.

She turned around and quickly read the writing for herself. As she did her posture grew increasingly annoyed until she was nearly shaking as she cursed, “that pompous, intervening ass-”

“Boss!” She yelled in the direction of the door she’d come through, turning her head a little.

“Bit busy here, Sally!” A voice called from the other side of the door. It was a man’s voice, probably older than him, and did sound distracted. It made John wonder just what kind of man owned this store.

“The Freak’s been at it again,” she called back, sounding like she thought that would be enough to convince him.

Apparently, it was. There was a loud sound of metal hitting metal and then quick footsteps. Seconds later the door opened again with a quiet ‘swish’ and a man stepped through.

John’s suspicions had been right. The man was older than him, his hair gone completely silver and with a friendly but slightly weathered face. He was dressed simply, much like John, but in a nice way and with a blue apron tied around his waist.

The man didn’t see John; he went right to the woman then stopped next to her to take in the blackboard.

After the few seconds it took the man to read over (and probably decipher) the messy scrawl, his shoulders visibly slumped. He sighed then turned back to the woman. “Did you see him do this?”

Her reply was an expectant, “What do you think? The Freak never lets us catch him at all.” As he raised a hand to apply pressure to either side of his nose, she added, “I thought you hid the chalk so he wouldn’t.”

The silver haired man replied wryly, “And when have you ever known that to stop him?” Then he amended, “It took him less than a day to find it, Sally. And I spent a long time thinking of the perfect place. It’s impossible to hide anything from him, or not for long anyway. And you know his ridiculous mixtures and drinks are what some of our customers like most.”

“We got on just fine before he came in and added those ridiculous things he claims are drinks,” the woman, Sally, said grumpily. She went to the blackboard, picked up the eraser at hand, and started vigorously erasing the writing. “People want normal, traditional drinks. Not the weird stuff he makes.”

The man looked on as she erased, more amused than irritated. “You couldn’t live without his ‘Disdain,’ Sally; and you know it.”

The frown that had turned her mouth down was now fighting a smirk. “You mean his ‘ASB63,’ Boss.”

A short laugh. “Right.”

The man turned away from the board towards her; and caught sight of John for the first time.

“Hello,” he greeted, the warmth in his voice very different from the icy greeting from Sally. “I’m afraid you haven’t come at the best time; we’re having a bit of a... personnel issue.” His darker gaze flickered to Sally. “But Sally can get you whatever you want; I’ll just be a second.”

With that he turned away and walked back through the sliding doors, shouting “Sherlock!” as the doors closed behind him.

John blinked, staring at the frosted doors. Then he shook his head and dragged his gaze back to the woman.

“So, what can I get you then?” She asked, stepping back up to the counter. “We’ve got almost everything. Even the stranger combinations the Freak’s thought up.”

John nodded at the blackboard now with white circular smudges instead of writing. “So what was the ‘Science of Deduction’ special then?”

Her lips twisted. “You don’t want that. It’s just some awful mixture. Probably tastes awful.” Her eyes flickered sideways, thinking. “Do you want earl grey? Or chamomile? We have both.”

John was about to say he wanted something new, something different- he was tired of doing the same thing over again- when shouting from the other room grew loud enough to hear clearly.

He did try not to listen in, but it was hard not to. It was much more interesting than deciding on a drink.

“I know you find it hard to understand this, Sherlock,” the older man's voice commented just on the edge of impatience. “But you are not in charge of this store. I am the owner, and you are supposed to listen to me. You just supply drinks customers like; you’re not even an employee really. But I do keep you around, even with your attitude.”

A new voice, male but deeper and more sure of itself, spoke. “Yet it seems that my drinks are the reason why many people come to this petty store.”

The man with the silver hair laughed once. “Come off it, Sherlock. We both know you could survive off that site of yours if you bothered to try. But you haven’t, so you sell your drinks in my shop. And I let you. But we do have plenty of customers who come in for the usual drinks, and like those just fine.”

After a pause- during which the self-confident man didn’t attempt to speak- the man added, sounding like he wasn’t sure he really wanted to say this, “But if you ever do stop selling your drinks here, you know your brother would always-”

“Do not speak to me about that pompous arse,” the lofty voice snapped, completely talking over the other man. “I don’t understand why you think he’s interesting enough to be worth seeing romantically, but I do not let him rule my life. I know better.”

The voice grew louder, coming closer to the door in time with footsteps. “However, if you want to throw your life away caring for my brother, I see no point in attempting to dissuade you.”

The frosted sliding doors opened again with a soft ‘swish,’ and John couldn’t help it. For a second he found himself gaping.

The man who emerged from what must be the kitchen was unlike anyone John had ever seen. He had seen tall men, and thin men, and very handsome men, and men in very nice, expensive dress. But this man somehow was all of those and still more. He was tall, almost towering, thin, worryingly thin, and wearing- even in the kitchen doing whatever he had been doing- a full suit, of very expensive fabric that fit his frame like a glove, and a blue scarf tied neatly around his neck though he was inside.

John could only see the man from the side as he walked along behind the counter and passed Sally; but he did look very handsome with his head of dark curls and pale skin (did he spend any time outdoors?) and sharp... everything.

The man didn’t look off to the side as he quickly went to the other end of the counter. Then, as he turned and walked through to the open floor of the cafe, the man raised his head- and his eyes met John’s.

It wasn’t love, or even mutual attraction at first sight- the idea of that was ridiculous. But those eyes- pale and almost silver in the store’s light- were like spotlights.

John went completely still, not realizing he was no longer leaning on the cane, until the other man suddenly cleared his throat and spoke.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” He asked, deep voice clear and not patronizing but... curious?

“S-Sorry?” John stumbled, slightly uncomfortable now that someone was looking at him for the first time since he’d returned to London (his therapist Ella didn’t really count).

The man rolled his eyes- a little dramatically John thought- and took another step forward. “I asked if you’ve been in Afghanistan or Iraq, since those are the only two places where a soldier could get a tan like yours. You’ve been back in London for a while, enough for your tan to fade slightly yet still be present. The cane you use would lead most to believe you suffered a leg wound, but it’s just psychosomatic. You are standing perfectly right now without any aid from that ridiculous thing. Therefore your wound, the real wound which caused you to be discharged, is somewhere else but still traumatic that you were unable to continue your career in the army.”

“Sherlock!” The silver-haired man barked just as the younger man stopped for breath in the middle of his dissection of John’s past.

Both John and the dark-haired man- Sherlock? What kind of name was that?- turned to look at the older man now standing next to the woman and not looking at all pleased.

“What did I say about using your ‘deductive skills’ on the customers?” He scolded then turned to John before ‘Sherlock’ could reply. “Sorry about that, he does that sometimes. Let me offer you a free drink, on me, to-”

“That was brilliant,” escaped John’s mouth before his brain caught up because really, that had been amazing. “How did you know all that?” He demanded of the younger man.

‘Sherlock’ turned back to him, and there was surprise in the pale eyes. Then that surprise faded away and John was being judged again for a long moment as he waited, wondering how this man could possibly know so much about his past. Finally Sherlock whipped around to demand of the silver-haired man, “Hire him.”

That man gaped at him, “What?”

“Hire him,” ‘Sherlock’ repeated, obviously not pleased about doing so. “He’s an ex-soldier, honorably discharged and only returned to London because of an injury. Otherwise he would still be overseas fighting. He’s honorable, he won’t try to steal from you and won’t slack in his work. He gets along with people, and has a fairly even temper. Once I get rid of the limp he’ll be able to easily keep up with the morning and afternoon rushes. You need someone else in the shop, Sally works too much to make up for other things, and he is the perfect choice. Hire him.”

The silver-man continued to stare at Sherlock. He glanced at John once, briefly, before replying irritably, “You’re not in charge of this shop, Sherlock! You can’t just make hiring decisions on your own; even if you do actually like someone- for once. And I’m not looking to hire anyone.”

John decided it might be a good time to speak up. “I’m not looking for anything, I just came in here for a drink and to get out of the rain.”

Sherlock glanced at him only long enough to scold, “Don’t be ridiculous,” before turning back to the silver-haired man. “You’ve been complaining for weeks about how you don’t have time to do everything that needs to be done, and take care of the store, and serve customers. Sally works as much as she can but even with her help you still can’t do everything without exhausting yourself.” A hand rose to gesture in John’s general direction. “This is the perfect solution. You would have an extra body around the shop to make you less tired and irritable. If you don’t trust him, or believe what I said- which is ridiculous, you can ask one of your former lackeys at the Yard to check on him. But he is clean and you will hire him eventually, so it would be best if you listened to me and hired him now.”

Sherlock lifted a long black coat from the back of a nearby chair and pulled it on in an overly dramatic way. “I have a new mixture I’m working on that needs to be checked on, but I’ll be back tomorrow.” Sherlock turned to fix the silver-haired man with a stern look. “Lestrade, I expect to see him in here then. Sally,” he paused, tilting his head slightly, “try not to drive off all the customers.” With that he started walking confidently to the door.

The silver-haired man- Lestrade?- came around the counter after him. “I know you know my name, don’t pretend you don’t. And you can’t just walk off, Sherlock!”

John expected Sherlock to hurry past him without acknowledging him, but the man actually stopped when he came up to John. Sherlock looked at John and John raised his chin a little to look back at him. Finally Sherlock slid his hand into one of the pockets in his coat and pulled out a white card.

He held it out to John then snatched his hand away as soon as John took it. Sherlock slid the hand back into his pocket and said, “I’ll see you tomorrow,” before continuing to the door.

John looked down at the card, ignoring ‘Lestrade’ and Sally’s protests at the door now swinging shut.

In plain black font in the middle of the card was the name ‘Sherlock Holmes.’ Below that was ‘Beverage Connoisseur,’ and in smaller text ‘Experimental Drinks Specialist.’ And finally, in small print, ‘221b Baker Street. London.’

‘Connoisseur’? ‘Drinks Specialist’? Who was this man?

John looked up at the sound of a cleared throat. He saw the silver-haired man- Lestrade- standing barely a yard away looking somewhat amused but more like he wanted to throttle Sherlock.

“I’m really sorry about Sherlock, he’s a pain most of the time,” he said, a kind of weary familiarity to the words as if this wasn’t the first- or last- time he’d apologized for the other man. “Thanks for not yelling at him, or attacking him, or otherwise trying to hurt him for saying rude things about you and sharing your secrets.”

John quickly shook his head. “No, it’s fine. That really was amazing.” He leaned forward, intent on learning Sherlock’s methods. “How did he know all that about me? I’ve never met him before.”

Lestrades’ laugh was a little sharp. “That doesn’t matter with him. All he needs is to watch you for a few seconds and he can tell you more about your life than even you know.” He turned a slightly thoughtful look on John. “You’re the first not to want to go for his throat for it though. Even when he first showed up here and told me everything about myself and my past without even introducing himself I wanted to throw him back out the door.” A pause then, “Well, he did leave on his own but without even any kind of explanation. Then later he showed up at a crime scene Sally was investigating and she thought he was a suspect, so she arrested him. Of course he, and his brother, quickly put us both right.”

John had a lot of questions but finally settled on: “So he helped you solve a murder using his, observation skills? You mean you caught a killer together?”

“More like Sherlock went haring off on his own and caught him while endangering his own life; then Sally and I arrived and she arrested the bastard,” Lestrade clarified, sounding oddly reminiscent. “When we met he was trying to set himself up as a kind of consulting detective; but that didn’t work out. I’d already left the Yard and opened this shop, and he turned out to have a knack for making drinks from really weird combinations that still tasted good. So we collaborate, and Sherlock and Sally try to stand each other.”

“Wow,” John commented, “that sounds... amazing.”

Lestrade’s lips twisted into a smile. “Something like that. Listen, I-” He broke off and blinked, looking startled. “Sorry, I just realized- I don’t even know your name.”

John paused, thought back, and realized that was true. “Right, sorry...” He held out his hand. “John Watson.”

The other man shook John’s hand. “Greg Lestrade.” He pulled back, adding, “I do have a first name despite what Sherlock thinks.”

“Right,” John laughed. He didn’t know exactly what he had accidentally walked in on, but this was much more exciting than his daily walks of wandering wherever his feet took him. The people in this shop were an unusual group, but John liked them for some reason. Maybe his brain had gotten warped sometime over the years, wars did change people or so it was said. But Sherlock, and Lestrade, and even Sally, had brought excitement to what had started as an ordinary, boring day.

Lestrade- Greg- cleared his throat. “Listen John. I realize we don’t really know each other, but I’m usually a good judge of character; and beyond all reason you didn’t go for Sherlock’s throat when he said all that about you, and he was pleasant with you, at least for him. So,” he continued, a little awkwardly, “I know I told Sherlock I wasn’t looking to hire anyone, but I do like you. And we actually could use an extra hand around here. Sally and I can’t handle everything on our own, and Sherlock just comes and goes as he pleases. So, if you’re interested, there is a place for you here.”

John felt like he’d been struck by lightning again that day. First he’d just happened to go into a cafe with interesting people to get out of the rain, and now the owner was offering him a job because he liked John and thought he was a good person; and because he’d gotten along with the eccentric personality of Sherlock Holmes, who had given him a mostly positive character reference. Either someone up there was laughing at him, or they were cheering him on.

“Uhm, well. I don’t really have experience with this kind of work,” John quickly explained, just so Greg knew before hiring him. “Before I went into the army I was a medical student. And in the army I was a doctor; I’ve never done any kind of customer service.”

Greg looked like he found this amusing. “But you’ve probably had to deal with stubborn patients, whining children, and some pretty awful situations as a doctor. It’s not really all that different dealing with customers who want their morning coffee and scone right this minute without any delay. We have our regulars, but some people aren’t always very nice. So I’m sure you’ll be fine.”

From his early morning experiences at cafes as a student, John knew how rude some people could be when they were in desperate need of caffeine. And Greg was right, he had plenty of stories from his time as a doctor. Maybe this could actually work, possibly.

Then Greg said, “Of course, you’ll have to talk with Mycroft first.”

John blinked. “Who’s Mycroft?”

Greg’s smile was not reassuring in the least. “Sherlock’s extremely protective older brother. Who holds a minor position in the British Government. And my... partner I suppose you’d call him.”

“Oh.” Well, that could be a problem.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the rest, I hope you all enjoy!
> 
> Again, comments/feedback are appreciated. Thanks to those who have commented/kudo-d so far!
> 
> Hopefully the next story in the series will be up soon!

Regardless of what most people would call common sense- not that John always listened to that voice in his head- the next morning John returned to the cafe.

He’d woken up early with the sunset- one habit that had stayed with him- and couldn’t fall back asleep. It had been one of his rare nights without nightmares, luckily enough (or not so), but he’d still been restless.

John was glad to have somewhere to go, and something to do instead of sitting inside all day or wandering around London avoiding people and being avoided. Even despite how, well crazy, really, the cafe had been. And whatever that had been with Sherlock.

He was returning to the cafe because, despite how strange it had been, he was also intrigued. A cafe where the owner, even though he had no reason to, had offered him a job of all things. To a wounded- traumatized if his therapist knew what she was talking about- ex-army doctor who had no purpose now he was back in London.

In the early hours of the morning John was walking along the mostly empty streets on his way to the cafe. He arrived with his leg only giving him occasional trouble, and opened the door to the cafe with a hard shove.

A bell jingled with the movement just as it had before, but no one called out or looked up.

John took several steps inside until he was beside the table closest to the door. Then he paused and took in the cafe.

Sherlock was behind the counter, his back to the rest of the cafe. John couldn’t tell exactly what he was doing but Sherlock was busy with something; occasionally darting over to different areas of the counter. He seemed to be completely focused and not paying anyone, or anything, any attention.

At the part of the counter closest to the kitchen Greg- Lestrade- was leaning casually over the counter, propped on one elbow. He was smiling, grinning was maybe a better word for it, at the man sitting on the other side of the counter. The man was sitting rather carefully, as if he weren’t used to stools; but even with how uncomfortable he looked, he was being very friendly towards Greg. They clearly knew each other well.

John started walking forward again, skirting around tables on his way to the counter. He stopped at the other end from Greg and the stranger, not wanting to bother them.

John rested his hands on the counter and cleared his throat.

Sherlock stilled with one hand wrapped around the handle of a mug and the other poised to pour from a jar. He turned his head and intoned, “Good morning, John.”

John smiled and greeted in return, “Good morning.”

Sherlock’s shoulders visibly relaxed; a second later there was a soft ‘clink’ as he set the jar down on the counter.

John straightened again, just as Sherlock turned completely around to face him.

There was a brief flicker of what could possibly have been surprise; but why, because John had actually come back? He hadn’t been absolutely sure he would, but had Sherlock doubted him too?

Then Sherlock blinked once, twice; and said, his voice perhaps just the slightest bit warmer, “Morning.”

John laughed, caught himself, and said again, “Morning.”

The two of them stared at each other for a few seconds, John not sure what he wanted to say and Sherlock, well he wasn’t saying anything either.

Finally Sherlock coughed and said in a rush, “Would, would you like something to drink? Anything you want.”

John frowned, brows drawn together. “Sure, yeah. I’d love a drink.” He agreed quickly, in desperate need of caffeine.

Sudden, frantic energy seemed to overtake Sherlock. He bounced once on the balls of his feet and said, words running over themselves, “Excellent! What would you like? No, don’t tell me-” Sherlock held up his hand, stopping anything John might have said. “I’ll make something to suit your tastes, on the house.”

Before John could tell Sherlock what he liked, the man quickly turned back towards the machine and opened a cupboard above his head. He took down a mug then did something with the machine until it started making noise. He slid the mug under the top of the machine, and bent down to take something out of a small refrigerator under the counter. Sherlock slowly poured what he took from the fridge into the jar and mixed it with a spoon, and suddenly the air smelled like spice (like his grandma’s old spice cupboard).

John had thought Sherlock was done after he poured the mixture into the mug he’d placed under the machine. But instead Sherlock opened the door to the cupboard to his left to reveal shelves full of jars. John leaned over the counter but as far as he could tell the jars didn’t have labels or names on them. Yet Sherlock easily glanced over them briefly before picking out a certain squat jar with a red lid. He unscrewed the lid, and shook whatever was inside into the mug twice.

“Sherlock, I-”

Sherlock hummed loudly, interrupting him, and started slowly stirring again. John waited until Sherlock finally stopped- ruling it was finally ready for consumption- and turned back to face him.

“Drink,” Sherlock ordered, setting the mug down on the counter in front of John with an impatient ‘clink.’

John gave him a suspicious look, but slowly reached out and wrapped his hand around the mug. He lifted it towards his mouth, only breaking eye contact to take his first careful sip hoping he wouldn’t burn his tongue.

A wave of flavors rushed over his tongue: a mixture of spices that made his tongue tingle, smoothness from what was possibly milk, and just a little hint of something sweet.

It was unusual, but mostly, “Delicious,” John exclaimed. He set the mug down and looked at Sherlock. “That’s absolutely delicious,” he enthused. “What’s in this?”

Sherlock’s lips twitched in a not quite smile. “Trade secret.”

John smiled. “Ah, huh. Well,” he said, taking another sip, “It’s delicious. Whatever’s in it.”

Out of the corner of his eye John saw Sherlock’s mouth twitch upward even further.

“Yet another fan of your... drinks, I see, Sherlock,” a smooth voice called over. “Well done.”

The beginnings of a smile on Sherlock’s face quickly vanished, twisting into displeasure. “Shut up, Mycroft,” he snapped, breaking eye contact with John as he took a step backward.

John blinked, surprised by the change. He hadn’t liked the dripping condescension in the other man’s voice either, but Sherlock sounded honestly upset.

“Leave him be, Mycroft,” Greg’s familiar voice scolded. “You know Sherlock’s drinks bring in business”; a pause, “or at least a few regulars.”

Sherlock scoffed loudly. “I am accountable for at least eighty percent of your business, Lestrade. Likely even more given how slow it has been lately. People enjoy beverages specialized to their own specific tastes.”

“Not everyone,” the smooth voice corrected smugly. “Some people do still enjoy black coffee and properly made tea.”

“Yes, well, good thing we offer both then,” Greg added dryly.

“Isn’t it just.”

John decided he should jump in before the three of them went for another’s throats, or the friendly- supposedly- sniping became more. He said lightly, “Well, I know I’ll definitely come back for more of this.” John raised his mug. “Whatever it is.”

The annoyance in Sherlock’s expression faded minimally. “Something unusual.”

“Needlessly complicated,” the other man countered.

“Specialized for its orderer,” Sherlock returned sharply, not looking away from John again.

John smiled and took another long drink from the mug. Once he swallowed he added gratefully, “Thank you.”

Greg spoke again. “He has an entire spreadsheet of drinks he’s come up with. Crazy combinations you’d think would never work but people actually like them.” Greg shot him an approving smile. “Including you apparently, John.”

“Sometimes its not so bad to try new things.” John commented, taking another draught of his drink.

The man who’d been talking to Greg made a polite scoffing noise. But he didn’t say anything else.

For some reason Greg seemed amused by this reaction. “Just because you drink nothing but straight black coffee, Mycroft,” he teased with a small smile. His eyes flickered to Sherlock. “Some people do like more exotic flavors.”

Sherlock loudly cleared his throat and turned so his back was completely to Greg and ‘Mycroft.’ “Come over here, John. I may as well try to teach you to make beverages.” He tilted his head. “It would probably be best to start with the simpler ones.”

John frowned disapprovingly at him. “I can remember how to make drinks. I do have a fairly good memory.”

“Mm,” Sherlock said in a close approximation of his doubtful scoff. “We’ll see.”

John clenched his hand at his side before quickly walking towards the end of the counter. He was determined to prove Sherlock wrong. And to prove to himself that even though he wasn’t in the army any longer, or working as a doctor, he could still be useful. He could still accomplish things.

Before he could slip behind the counter the stranger, ‘Mycroft,’ spoke again. “Do you really need another employee, Gregory? I would imagine Ms. Donovan and my brother are enough of a handful for you to manage, on top of everything else.” His voice turned wry. “Do try not to do too much Gregory.”

“Sally can’t work every shift,” Greg countered, sounding argumentative for the first time. “And I wasn’t actually the one to think of hiring him, that was all Sherlock.”

John didn’t look, but he could hear the clear surprise in the man’s voice. “Sherlock thought to hire him. I wasn’t aware you looked to my brother for hiring decisions. Or for anything more than a supplier of your more, specialized beverages.”

“I don’t,” Greg quickly replied. “But he did make a few good points, and convinced me John was worth a chance.” After a wry laugh he added, “And as you know, Sherlock is nearly always almost completely right.”

“Wrong.” Sherlock intoned. “I am always right.”

“Except for when you miss something during your deductions,” ‘Mycroft’ intoned darkly, as if reminding Sherlock.

Sherlock shot him a dark look, but instead of replying he said to John, “Come along, John. I don’t have all day; there’s a new drink I am very near to perfecting.”

“Well I don’t want to take up your precious time,” John drawled a little sarcastically. He walked over to Sherlock and stopped beside him. “I’m sure with a little guidance I can learn them on my own.”

“Nonsense,” Sherlock declared before promptly turning his focus to the machine.

The man with Greg- was his name really Mycroft?- cleared his throat. “I believe it is up to Gregory to make the management decisions, Sherlock. You do not have any say over such things, no matter what you might think.”

“Yet Lestrade seconded my decision,” Sherlock replied smartly, taking yet another mug down. “I’ve heard change can be good at times, Mycroft. Perhaps you should look into it.”

“Sir? We should be going.”

John started at the new voice and turned to look, while Sherlock continued gathering things from the cupboards and refrigerator.

There was a tall woman, even taller in heels, standing next to the man with Greg. She was stunning, and in a very nicely fitting dress suit, and tapping away on the mobile in her hands.

“Just a minute please, Anthea.” The man said, only briefly glancing at her.

“The PM will be waiting, sir.”

“I’m sure he’s used to waiting,” Greg commented, resting more of his weight against the counter. “A few minutes more can’t hurt.” He didn’t say anything about the strange noises Sherlock was causing the machine to make.

“Apologies, Gregory, but I really should be going,” Mycroft said as he rose from the stool. “It was good to see you. We must see each other again soon.”

“Mycroft-”

“We’ll spend time together soon, Gregory. I plan to stay in the country for the foreseeable future.” Mycroft promised. After a moment he reached out and placed his hand over Greg’s. “We will spend more time together, I promise.”

“Oh go away already,” Sherlock snarled, with an audible eyeroll. “You’re making me ill.”

“An unintentional benefit,” the man commented with a slight smile. He turned away from the counter, taking the coat the woman held out to him. “Take care, Gregory,” he said as he pulled it on. “And John, I do hope Sherlock doesn’t manage to run you off before the days end. You do seem to be a pleasant, normal fellow.”

“Go away, Mycroft,” Sherlock snapped yet again, harsher.

“Yes, I think it is time to go, Anthea,” he announced, and they both started for the door. “Good day.”

“‘Bye Mycroft!” Greg called cheerfully.

As soon as the door clicked shut behind them, Greg turned on Sherlock. “I don’t understand why you just can’t get along with your brother. You two always have to be so difficult.”

Sherlock remained silent, continuing to tinker with the machine.

“That was your brother?” John asked, surprised. Now that he thought about it, their sniping did sound a lot like what most conversations between him and Harry dissolved into.

“Surprised I have a brother?” Sherlock asked, ice to the edge of his words.

“No, no it’s not that,” John quickly replied. “Well it is a bit, but I have a sister who I don’t get on with either.”

Sherlock suddenly froze, one hand on the mug and the other on the machine. A second later he spun to look intently at John. “Sister, you have a sister,” he hissed. “There’s always something.”

“Didn’t you just say you’re always right?” Greg reminded Sherlock as he carried the two mugs he and Mycroft had been using to the sink.

“Not a word,” Sherlock bit out, quickly resuming his drink-making.

John relaxed his posture slightly so he wasn’t quite so defensive. He turned to rest against the counter yet still see the rest of the shop. “So that was your brother.”

“Unfortunately.”

“He seems...” John paused, searching for the right word and having trouble. ‘Nice’ was definitely not right. “Interesting,” he finally settled on.

Sherlock laughed sharply.

“Sorry John, but you can’t understand the sibling rivalry between Sherlock and his brother,” Greg called over the sound of the water running.

“He’s not my brother, he’s my archenemy!” Sherlock corrected loudly, setting the now full mug down a little roughly.

John now had an insight into Sherlock as a young boy. “Your... archenemy.”

“Don’t ask John,” Greg advised, drying the mugs with a rag. “It’s really better if you don’t ask.”

“Yes, my archenemy,” Sherlock confirmed. Then he turned to John, holding out the mug. The liquid inside sloshed a little. “Here, taste this.”

John stared down at the mug suddenly thrust under his nose. After only a brief hesitation he took the mug from Sherlock. He didn’t think Sherlock would try to poison him- not just yet- and he was eager to try more of Sherlock’s specialties.

Closing his eyes John slowly lifted the mug to his lips and took a long sip. As soon as he lowered the mug again Sherlock demanded impatiently, “Well? What do you taste?”

What? “Uhm, well... chocolate? Or cocoa. Some kind of chocolate definitely.”

“You need to be more precise. Dark chocolate with a little white chocolate,” Sherlock corrected, only a little patronizingly. “Continue.”

He could really tell that? John was new to this, he didn’t really know much about making drinks. Especially not to the point of being able to tell exactly what was in something.

John scrambled to identify what he’d tasted. Just to be sure he took another long sip, closing his eyes again. “Some kind of fruit? Just a little. Cherry? Or.... raspberry.”

“Raspberry.” Sherlock confirmed. “What else?”

“Mm,” John thought hard for a long second before finally shaking his head. “That’s it.”

Sherlock gave a rather loud, put-upon sigh. “Well, I suppose you’re not entirely an idiot.” He looked appraisingly at John. “You do have the ability to learn.”

John laughed. “Thanks, I think.” He went to take another sip of the delicious drink, but Sherlock snatched the mug out of his hands. “Hey!”

“No time for that,” Sherlock admonished. He set the mug to his right on the counter. “You’re here to learn how to make drinks, as easy as they are. Not to drink everything.”

“I can’t even enjoy what I make?” John asked hopefully, eyeing the mug.

Sherlock turned to frown at him. “Why would you do that?”

“I-” John ended up shaking his head instead of trying to answer. “Never mind. I wouldn’t.”

Sherlock hummed and turned his attention to taking yet another mug down. At this rate they were going to use all of them before the customers even started coming in.

As if reading John’s mind, Greg called from near the kitchen door, “You’re cleaning all those mugs when you’re done Sherlock!”

“Isn’t that what you have Sally for?” Sherlock returned, peering inside the mug suspiciously. But the doors to the kitchen were already swinging shut behind Greg. “Irritating,” he muttered.

“I’ll wash if you want to dry,” John offered. “Since I was using them too.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sherlock said, waving a hand in the air. “They’ll get done anyways.”

“Still, it would-”

Sherlock talked completely over him. “Now, I will show you how to make this once, and only once. Then it will be up to you to use that supposedly excellent memory of yours to remember. Most of the population don’t use nearly as much of their brain as they can, so prove to me you’re different.”

This was his chance to prove to Sherlock that he was worth the risk of his sudden hiring, and to thank him for believing in him. It was thanks to Sherlock that he even had this opportunity to feel useful to society again. “All right,” John said with a determined nod, “Show me.”

After Sherlock went through the steps of making his least complicated drink (John soon forgot the strange name) he let John try on his own. Sherlock turned out to be a rather... impatient teacher. He barked at John if he did something wrong, and liked to correct him at every step. John knew Sherlock was just trying to make him do his best, probably, but by the end his jaw hurt from gritting his teeth. He was ready to snap at Sherlock but didn’t, didn’t even have time before Sherlock took the mug from him and handed him another.

“Again,” Sherlock commanded.

John took a deep breath then exhaled through his nose, a technique he’d learned years ago. Once he didn’t feel like strangling the other man, John took the mug and started the process all over again.

By the time there were nearly a half dozen mugs sitting on the counter with varying levels of liquid in them, John’s head was pounding. For the first in a long time his leg wasn’t bothering him and he could put equal weight on both. It wasn’t the same as being a doctor, especially over in Afghanistan, but it was a start. It was using his brain, and his memory.

By the time Sherlock had deemed his most recent attempt, ‘Adequate, but can still be vastly improved upon,’ the sun was shining in through the glass windows and outside the city looked to be waking up.

Greg had been going in and out of the kitchen during Sherlock and John’s lesson, bringing out trays of sandwiches, pastries, and other goods, and sliding them into the display under the counter. He also brought out new mugs, shooting an annoyed glance at the dirty ones on the counter, and put them in the cupboard.

It took John a few minutes to realize Greg was getting ready for the day, ready for customers to come in.

He took a quick sip of his last attempt before Sherlock could take the mug away. John thought it tasted better than ‘adequate,’ but Sherlock obviously expected nothing less than perfection. Then he suggested, “Maybe we should stop, Sherlock. People will be coming in soon-”

“Irrelevant,” Sherlock said, not appearing to listen. He handed John a new mug.

“Sherlock, time to wrap it up,” Greg called, sweeping one last look over the counter. “It’s almost time to open.”

Sherlock set the mug down loudly, and turned to look accusingly at Greg. “But he hasn’t learned anything yet!”

“Yes I have!” John protested. “Well, I nearly have. The last one was ‘adequate.’”

Greg laughed. “‘Adequate’ is a good accomplishment, John. But we’ll just start you on the food and register for now. Tomorrow Sherlock can keep teaching you, if you want.”

“All right,” John agreed. It wasn’t like he’d expected to be making drinks his first day.

Greg gave him a grateful smile before turning his attention on Sherlock. “Will you behave today? No being smart with the customers?”

“It’s not my fault if-”

“Sherlock,” Greg said sternly.

Sherlock glowered at him before finally sighing heavily. “I will do my best to behave with the customers,” he promised, enunciating each word and sounding as if he were reciting a line he’d memorized.

Greg gave him a critical look, checking how genuine he was, before nodding. “All right, then.” He grinned at them both. “Let’s start the day.”


End file.
